Authentic Science Fiction Monthly No. 41 — page 59: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

AUTHENTIC SCIENCE FICTION She was the “‘nosey” type any- way, he reflected sourly. Thelong, longhourscrawled slowly by, leaving Newton more jittery with each passing moment. Finally, near midnight, he ventured forth, the damaging . package clutched tightly be- neath his arm. He hated to throw that coat away—it was one of his best suits, barely three months old. But he couldn’t take it to a cleaner. That would be a dead give- away. High into the air he sped at his fastest speed, then rocketed toward the coast over a hun- dred miles away. There seemed no limit to his speed, except that the growing numbness from the cold, caused by his height and the rush of air past him, made him finally go a bit lower and slower. The coastline at last! He came down ona deserted patch ~ of rocky beach and found a huge stone. Carefully he tied the bundle around it with a piece of rope he’d brought. Then into the air again, and out over the sea. For half an hour he flew, then dropped the bundle, and 38 came down near the surface, watching until it sank. His relief as he headed back for the coast was so great he began to feel the strain. He found it increasingly difficult to hold in his mind the “pattern of flight’’ that made his levita- tion possible. Worriedly he wondered if he could reach shore. What a fool he’d been to come so far. Ten miles out would have been far enough. Or five miles. Or even one. He did not realise quite how low he was flying until the spray from a higher than usual wave splashed against him, and sent him zooming upward— effortlessly. “Why, I can still do it!’’ His thought was pure amazement. And then he realised he’d been a silly, scared fool. ‘There was no way for them to have traced me,” he scolded, bitterly. ““And I needn’t have worried so about the coat, either. I could’ve soaked that blood out in cold water, then taken it to acleaner. And even if he noticed it, I could have thought up a good reason. I’m suppose to be a writer, able to dream up plots and gimmicks.”’ connicloooks.comn)